


Saudade

by lemonietrinket13



Category: Day6 (Band), K-pop
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, Fluff, Magic, Mystery, Non-Idol AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-28 22:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21400036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonietrinket13/pseuds/lemonietrinket13
Summary: Dowoon, after a year of working part-time, manages to get a fulltime job: the graveyard shift at his local museum. The nightguard running the West-Wing seems pretty nice and promises that although things can get a little funky sometimes, there’s nothing to worry about. Dowoon takes the words of advice dutifully, and as his weeks go past without a hitch, he begins to wonder what she was talking about.But then one day comes around, when he’d just about forgotten the words spoken to him three weeks prior, that one of the museum’s exhibits goes missing - with its display case opened from the inside.
Relationships: Yoon Dowoon/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Day6





	1. Chapter One

The velvet curtain of night finally graced the skies, as the number of people gathering along the streets finally dissipated to the very few. The auburn haze thinly crested the crowns of the buildings, and cast translucent shadows across the pavement that darted across the faces of those hurrying home.

Dowoon had finished the last day of his parttime job at his cousin’s cafe early, that Tuesday evening. His roommate had suggested that he request for the end of his shift to be covered so he could prepare for his first day—or should he say, night—at the local museum as a security guard. He hadn’t thought his enquiry would be approved, but there he was, walking out of the backdoor an hour earlier than he normally would have done.  
Although, he had received and prepared his uniform the night before, and it became apparent while he bid his coworkers goodbye that he didn’t require any extra preparation time, as what was there to prepare?  
He considered letting his manager know that he’d changed his mind and wanted to stay, but then he considered the hassle it may cause for them, and figured it wouldn’t be a wise decision to try. Also, the door had just slammed behind him.

In the end, he walked directly across the street to the Costa opposite and sat on one of tables inside instead, awkwardly eating a plain ham sandwich while reading Wikihows on how to have a good first day at work.

They weren’t very useful.

An hour and half later, he decided that he could start heading over, if he made sure to walk really slowly, opt for the long route, and only arrive around 25 minutes early, which really isn’t so bad, right?  
So, checking the sandwich box for the recycle sign, he threw his rubbish away, dusting the crumbs off his hand and into the general waste, before making his way along the high street.

An abrupt and angry car horn lifted his head from watching the pavement cracks, as two vehicles very nearly collided at a roundabout. He watched the following trails of traffic routinely slow as the close-save butterflied down the streams, before narrowly avoiding his own encounter with a tree.

Eventually, he made it to the museum. It was a huge building made of stone blocks the colour of beige chalk, with a rounded bow that made some shelter above the entrance. The doors and surrounding windows were merely panes of glass, but it was easy to tell that they were thick. Dowoon wondered if they were triple glazed, and then if triple glazing was a thing.  
Upon the extended semi-circle, the wall continued to stretch upwards to form another floor, with gridlike windows that snagged the glare of the streetlights below, and offered no insight into what was inside.

Though it was nowhere near being the largest museum in the world, as it was not even close to being the biggest one in the city, that didn’t stop him from feeling daunted. He reminded himself that he wasn’t working alone and wasn’t covering the entire building—in fact, he was only in charge of the East-Wing—and that he didn’t actually have to patrol all of the rooms either. Because there were some that had electronic alarm systems, others a multitude of cameras, and maybe even lasers.   
He hoped there were lasers, that would be pretty cool.  
Although, none of that did anything to knock down the slight tremble of nerves.

He forced himself up the steps and through the doors, heading straight to the only occupied counter. The man inside was surrounded by subpar screens, with motion pictures running constantly seconds behind.  
He tried to send him a smile, but judging by his expression, he guessed it didn’t turn out as well as he’d hoped.

“Uh, hello.” He cleared his throat. “Yoon Dowoon? New security guard. Here for the night shift? In the, uh—”

The man had begun typing as soon as he’d said his name, his eyes focused upon the monitor rather than at him, and only looked at him to interrupt, “First door on the right, get changed into your uniform in the changing rooms there, and pick up your talk set from your locker.” He shoved a key across the polished granite, instantly swivelling in his chair and rolling away to the opposite monitors.

“Ah. Thank you.” He watched him begin to dial a number on the old wire phone, then gently accepted the key and strode briskly to the door labelled STAFF.  
Peering down at his key he noticed it was very slightly bent, with a paper tag reading ‘<strike>G.O.</strike> #13′ tenuously tied through the hole.

As soon as the door jolted open he was hit with a plume of arid air. It was as if the vents had been cluttered with moth wings. He ignored it as best he could, spotting the changing rooms and dashed inside. The air quality didn’t improve in there, and so quickly putting on the jacket and attaching his badge, he rushed out to find his locker. They were in order—he didn’t see why they wouldn’t be—and next to #13 stood a woman, shoving her kit back into the rattling metal box of #12.

“Hey,” she greeted gruffly, “you must be the new guy?”

“Yeah.” He began to wrestle with the lock. He was right, the key was bent. He considered the future implications of it remaining that way and shuddered.  
After a couple of different angles, he managed to twist it far enough to open it.

“Yeah, that key is a hassle. It wasn’t the last guy who broke it but he certainly didn’t like it either,” she laughed, “what’s your name?”

“Dowoon.”

She watched him struggle with the belt for a bit, before closing her door.  
“Other way around,” she said.

“Oh.” He twisted it back and found that it fit. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” She turned her key and leant against her locker on her upper arm. “The name’s Kris, short for Kristina. And with a ‘k’. Nice to meet you.”

He nodded, before getting distracted by the walkie-talkie.

“Use that sparingly, otherwise Jack’ll get proper mad,” she chuckled, “that’s the guy at the front desk. He’s not the cuddly-type if you couldn’t tell.”

He slotted it into the empty strap on his left hip, nodding. He finally looked up properly at Kris, doing a doubletake. She was extraordinarily tall, her near-transparent skin dappled with masses of swirling dots that bridged her nose and left only her palms bare.

There was a silence, as she seemed to analyse his face. “East-Wing, right?”

“Yes.”

Her thin lips pressed into a smirk, though it didn’t appear malicious. “I worked graveyard when the last guy was in. I took West, he took East. He always swore something funky was up with the East-Wing, but he would never say what it was. Don’t worry, though,” her voice had a teasing tone to it now, “he may have left all of a sudden with no notice and we’ve never heard from him since, but that doesn’t mean there’s something to worry about!”

Dowoon thought he kept quite a blank expression at that point, but he clearly hadn’t. She erupted into laughter, a thick chorus of gritty chords that seemed to come from the core.  
“Relax kid, I’m joking! He transferred to the Manor House Museum across the city, said he wanted a change of scenery. I can’t judge though, because his move prompted me to change shifts to second rather than third. It’s nice to see the museum with actual people in it, you know?”

She didn’t give him much of a chance to answer though, proceeding, “Still, it is very peaceful in there though, seeing it in the dark and all empty. It’s so quiet that people can imagine things on their first days, so don’t worry too much if that happens. Anyways, you don’t need to check the Mollusc Room, it’s got motion sensors in there, same for Room 2b because of the painting of Leo—what?”

“Mollusc?” He questioned light-heartedly.  
Then her face suddenly turned to stone.

“Yeah? There’s an extremely old fossil in there. Revolutionised the history of molluscs, their genealogy and con... people who study molluscs got really excited about it so. Don’t mock the molluscs, k?”

Dowoo slid his eyes to the unscrubbed linoleum floor. “Sorry, I won’t.”

“Good good. Well, I gotta get home, or I’m going to miss the match. Oh, Dongwoo is working in the West-Wing already—consider yourself spared on that. Also, be careful of the janitor. Nothing’s wrong with him, just his heart is in the right place but his limbs rarely are. He’s almost knocked over four exhibits this month alone. Anyways. See you around.”  
And with that she walked past, patting him on the shoulder as she went, and was gone.

Double checking that he had all of his equipment, he decided that he should follow suit and begin heading to the East Wing.

* * *

His first night went without a hitch. Kris was right, the museum was pretty tranquil when no one was there. Not that he’d really been when people were. The only bad thing was that he was insanely tired by the time 7am rolled around. He blamed the fact it had been a lot of walking and the anxieties of that come with the first day of a job. Nevertheless, after getting back to his shared apartment and avoiding as many questions as he could from his roommate, he collapsed onto his bed into a deep sleep.

There was one thing that balanced his tiredness out, however, and that was the beauty of the exhibits in the near-darkness. Seeing the paintings with shadows and dancing shimmers across their gold frames, the silhouettes of the skeletons that in the blink of an eye could almost run and play tag down the corridors, the machinery appearing to kick into gear and the planes almost taking flight. It was as if the harsh light of day trapped the monuments in time, whereas the dark set them free. In the dimness, you couldn’t see the cracks and holes and scratches that displayed their age.

But there was one where this applied to the most.

All the rooms remained relatively well lit, but there were two that had large windows and obviously relied heavily on natural light, and these rooms possessed a surprising lack of lamps. However, this wasn’t an issue: since they were designed to let in the most sunlight, they also welcomed the silver of the moon with open arms.

And in the second of these rooms, due to the angle, the moon rose into view through the curved sliver of glass, high above in the ceiling. It illuminated the entire circle, with the beams concentrated onto the centre, and it stayed that way for hours, as the chalk spectre remained in view for the majority of the night.

That area of the East-Wing was dedicated to music, with the smaller rooms leading in and out of the circle featuring a multitude of instruments. But the room hosting the presence of the moon harboured the unrivalled exhibits.

The ring was dedicated to ancient instruments. From Greek to Egyptian, the earliest Chinese dynasties, a couple from the pre-metal era. Many were so old they looked as fragile as the hands that used to play them. But there was one that appeared trapped perfectly in time, the prize possession, found in the heart.

A lyre, made of gold and deep rose-mahogany, embroidered with etching black ink and infinitesimal rouge blossoms. The strings were as thin as spider webs, glistening in what moonlight they were granted—that was controlled by the glass display case’s silk veil, neatly draped like a dress over a statue.  
The condition it rested in upon a crimson pillow was not spotless: its gold was slightly dulled, its strings were slightly withered. But it was a miracle nonetheless. It was in the best condition of all the instruments in that room, and it couldn’t have been much younger than them.

That being said, he didn’t actually know how old it was.  
No one did.

After checking the rest of the room, he had headed over to the central display. The inscribed information slide was difficult to read normally, but in the brilliance of the full moon peeking from the window frame above, the words were crisp:

> Belonging to an era that has yet to be identified, and in near-pristine condition compared to its fellow instruments amid the exhibit, this ancient lyre is complete with delicate designs of paint crushed from gems, and accentuated with pure gold. It was found along the shoreline of Punta Arenas, Chile, seemingly washed up from the sea. It has been named the Prophecy Lyre, as it is believed to be the lyre spoken within a piece named ‘Ahna lo Mir-iila’. It is unclear whether it is a poem or song, but the earliest written recording of its words were dated to 133 B.C, and it is expected to be much older. The prophecy goes as follows:
> 
> _There is an ancient lyre, snared within a half-veiled cage;_   
_Glass murky with the breath of age,_   
_Golden faded, strings spoiled grey_   
_Held in high esteem despite the forgotten day—_
> 
> _Where the icy bow knew music well_   
_And the chords melded with a single knowledged shell,_   
_Cloven weaves crafted of the tidal swell,_   
_Tips course as the knowledge at the trough of a well._
> 
> _The lyre lamented her earth-worn tales—_   
_The melody of the bear, the harmony of the whale—_   
_She danced in the light and laughed into the hail,_   
_Unshrouded the path of the long-forgotten trail,_   
_When the earth fell still she found the air stale._
> 
> _The waters were silent and the fires festering,_   
_She called for her shell but they never came._   
_Voidful abyss they left her in,_   
_Silence ricocheted her curse of an empty scream._
> 
> _There is an ancient lyre whose melody is a spell,_   
_They say her song ascends from the depths of hell,_   
_But she does not forget the euphoria and sorrow,_   
_Of the cascade of sand when she was still held._
> 
> It has been translated from Ancient Senshrikan, a language belonging to the mysterious people of Senshrika, a realm that according to myth spanned across a wide archipelago that was—by historian’s best estimates—located somewhere in the central-southern of the Pacific Ocean. These islands, however, have never been found. It is believed that the islands, if they did exist, were drowned in changing sea levels, or the civilisation was wiped out in a natural disaster.

But the way the accents caught the hazy silver of the moon, the way the strings shone to the extent he considered they had a light of their own, it was as if it was asking to be uncovered.  
He knew that the reason it was covered was likely for its own protection. Harsh lights were damaging to paintings—if that’s what his art teacher had actually said on that one art gallery trip years ago—so by logic, it must apply to other things too.

Regardless, Dowoon swore he could almost hear its melodies on the air.

Almost.

He figured that was what Kris meant by the silence encouraging your head to make sounds for you. Borderline-auditory-hallucinations.  
And that was how Sungjin found him when he managed to get up at about 3pm: frowning at his laptop screen, opened with too many tabs for it to handle, one of which being the Saudade Street Museum website open.

“How long have you been up?” his roommate asked as soon as he spotted him, shutting the front door behind him.

Dowoon shrugged, slightly startled, and closed the site discussing whether or not platypuses could hallucinate too. “An hour?”

Sungjin gave him a wide-eyed look he knew all too well. It was the one that meant he was considering if it was appropriate to get mad or not. “When I said yesterday to sleep in, I meant ‘til before lunch.”

“I know, I didn’t mean to,” Dowoon said apologetically, spotting the bag stock-full of groceries in his hand. "Do you want help?”

The Look disappeared as he shook his head. “No, don’t worry.” He moved beyond him and placed the bag beside the fridge, beginning to unpack.

Dowoon shifted back to his laptop, but couldn’t seem to be able to read the words anymore. He quickly realised he’d gone on an information-tangent, and dolphins weren’t exactly what he’d originally intended to look up. He trawled through the tabs, resulting in the closure of them all. With that out of the way, he shut it down, wincing at the heat the poor device had been kicking out. The rustling of plastic continued.

“Hey, where are you working again?” Sungjin suddenly spoke.

“The Saudade Street Museum?” He swung round in his chair so he didn’t have to crane his neck. The bag was practically empty, and Sungjin was putting a glass pot of seasoning in the cupboard.

“Hmm, you don’t sound too certain,” he joked, exhaling as he came back to pick up the milk. When he didn’t get a response, he continued, “well, Younghyun mentioned that he wanted us all to meet up again, and Jaehyung said something about a museum. I can’t remember which one he said, but it sure didn’t sound like that.”

“Hmm,” he racked his brain for the name of the museum across town, “Manor House?”

Sungjin closed the fridge with a thud, causing him to pause to listen if anything fell. Nothing. “That’s the one.”

“Yeah. It’s nice there.”

“Still, I’m not sure a museum is a great place to go. Everyone’ll want to go to different areas, all at once. And at least one person gets lost—don't say it, we both know who—so how are we supposed to catch up if everyone is on other sides of the building?”

Dowoon shrugged. “Maybe that was his point?”

Sungjin came to sit opposite him and folded his arms on the tabletop, glaring off to the side. “You’re right, aren’t you? Ah! That _guy_—” He immediately received a ping from his pocket and pulled out his phone. Without even turning on the screen, his lips parted in disdain. It was only when his face was alit did he speak, and his voice was filled with a very specific tone of disappointment. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“Wonpil.”

“Oh no.” Dowoon echoed, a chuckle in his voice. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing apparently,” Sungjin’s eyebrows knotted, “except... he’s... broken the freezer—how do you break a freezer?!”

“I don’t know.”

“No neither do I,” he sighed. “You don’t need the car, do you? It says it will rain later.”

He grinned. “No, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Go save Wonpil-hyung.”

He muttered, “I was hoping you would say yes. Nevermind, if I don’t see you before you leave, have a good day at work.”

“Oh.” Dowoon sent him a little wave. “Thank you. Good luck!”

Just before he closed the door, he heard a mumble of, “I’m going to need it.” which made him chuckle.

He was glad he wasn’t living alone. Sungjin had been extremely helpful, in university and now outside of it. He’d jumped into a ridiculously high paying job (for post-grad standards) in business, and Dowoon had felt awful that he’d only managed to achieve a parttime job, and practically via nepotism no less.

His bad feelings weren’t out of self-hate, but rather that he felt that he was effectively scrounging off Sungjin’s good wage.

But the man didn’t seem to mind.

He nagged every now and again and got him to do more chores as ‘payment’ when he couldn’t be bothered to do them (which wasn’t often), but really he didn’t treat him any differently than he had done back at university.

Wonpil had iterated that it was because he genuinely loved him like a little brother, through thick and thin, but he was pretty sure that Wonpil was projecting by that point. And slightly tipsy. He had been hanging off his arm, and followed his deep insight with making childish grabby-hands at Jae who then refused to indulge his request for a hug, and then proceeded to sob about it.

It didn’t matter, he had a fulltime job now. And some spare time before he should try to go to sleep again to set up a routine.

So he headed over to the drum kit they’d just about managed to squeeze in one corner of the living room. After retrieving a pair of drumsticks that had somehow fallen on the floor, he began to set up a rhythm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First-ever multi-parter posted on AO3 so please play nice with me :((  
Critique is welcomed!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter Two

It had been about three weeks, and Dowoon was loving his job. It was tiring, and he still hadn’t quite gotten used the weird waking hours, but his body clock was very gradually catching up.

He had managed to avoid the other guard, Dongwoo, for the most part, though they did bump into each other one morning after leaving. He wasn’t too bad per se, just a little quiet—but awkward-quiet, as if he knew something he didn’t.

The janitor, Junghwan, was much better company but he was often off at a little bit past midnight, because there was no more mess, for obvious reasons. He didn’t get to talk to him often as their schedules rarely coincided, though on the occasions they had spoken, he found him quite odd too, but much more talkative and bubbly. He figured he would get along well with Wonpil.

He’d had a mini-success too. At the start of his second week, he’d noticed the locks on the display case housing the lyre had been flimsy. He’d mentioned it to Kris who clearly did something about it because the very next day, they had been changed. She told him the next time they ran into each other which had been a couple of days after that not only did the old locks allow for the door to be opened without difficulty but also without noise. She also mentioned that that was raise-worthy stuff, but he shook his head.

It seemed that he was built for the job, and all his worries were for nothing.

And then everything went wrong.

It had been a normal Friday evening, the sky was particularly clear as he’d run to Saudade Street. He’d woken up a bit later than usual, but he managed to pass through the doors in time, greeting Jack who had emotionally grown no further, and changed into his uniform. With a bit of struggle over the previous shifts he’d managed to bend his key back so it was nearly straight again, and so opening his locker was much easier that time around.

He headed straight to his patrol, checking in with Jack only briefly to hear if there were any specific areas to keep an eye on. There wasn’t.   
Neither was there a word from Junghwan over the radio, warning him over wet floors, which was unusual but had happened before.

It all meant that for that Friday into the early hours of Saturday, he was very much alone.

In this case, it wasn’t like he disliked the silence. He just would have prefered there to have been something to listen to. He was fine for the first hour or so. And then his rounds led him through the familiar sights of the music displays, and his longing worsened.

What surprised him was not his lack of company in itself, but rather how much he missed it. He wasn’t overly talkative as a person, and he didn’t particularly want to spend time with anyone who was in the museum at that time. Though he’d never really been alone, surrounded by loving pets in childhood, then friends that were like family in education, and then his roommate now. 

A part of him wished he wasn’t alone, just for a bit. He understood why Kris had switched shifts.

However, he immediately regretted his wishes when it appeared as if someone had answered them.

He headed into the music rooms first, as per usual. He liked to begin his rounds there. Kris had frowned at it when she’d asked about his route. He figured it was sort of a familiar environment, but he honestly didn’t know why either, it wasn’t particularly logical looking at the map.  
Regardless, he passed the delicate pipa resting on its side (as upright the curators feared for its condition), thoroughly checking the shadows in between the Roman wind instrument case and the Greek cabinet. Then he turned back to check on the display case of the lyre.

He approached the task carefully, ducking gently beneath the cover, shining his torch on every edge and corner of the glass, and on the hinges that remained steadfastly locked. He made sure the veil was still arranged across the top, (he’d asked Kris as to why it was there and she replied ‘because the poem said so’) and everything appeared to be in perfect order.  
So he began to head away to the next set of rooms to check.

And that was when he heard a thud.

It wasn’t particularly loud, or urgent, just resembled what he imagined something that was already slowly losing its balance had fallen, onto a soft surface like a thick carpet.

He spun round to face the direction it had come from, to see no sign of any change. He performed another check around every single instrument in that room and the rooms leading into the crown and saw nothing new. 

Assuming that he’d imagined it, he turned right back and proceeded with his patrol as he had intended.

He turned the corner into the early and medieval instruments section, a long corridor that was only lit with lamps: no natural light. He flashed his torch across the potted plants placed as guards on both sides of the door. Placing his hand on the handle, he swung the door open with a haunting strange squeak, when he heard an aggressive thunk, harmonised with a clatter and a crack.

His heart lurched into a rapid beat, as he realised it emanated from the ancient section. He broke into a jog back the way he came. Four steps away from the corner and the exact same sound recurred, forcing him to break into a sprint. 

A hand on the wall to right himself, he practically leapt around the corner.

His attention immediately fell on the glass display case lit by the moon in a spotlight. 

The lyre was gone.

He searched the room frantically with his eyes, his body frozen to the spot. He was supposed to report it, he knew that. Pick up the walkie-talkie and tell Jack. Textbook. 

But his hand didn’t move, none of his limbs did. He was hyper-aware of his heart racing as if he was going to die, his veins seeping with adrenaline but nothing physical resulted in it.

He stared at the glass case. Something wasn’t right.

It was his brain that was functioning properly and benefitting from the biological responses. 

The door was swung open, which meant someone had gotten in and taken the lyre and run for it. That was what he first thought. 

But then he noticed the pane of glass that made the door was, apart from at the top and the bottom edge, completely unscratched.  
The breakages were situated where the locks once were. 

The locks themselves? Scattered alongside several fragments of glass.

Outside the case.

On the wrong side, for someone getting in_._

But the correct side for someone getting _out._

He raised his line of sight to analyse the top of the case. The veil was gone too, to reveal a thick block of glass, fully intact. The same conclusion applied to the other three sides of the case.

None of it made sense.   
Nothing could have gotten _in_, to then have broken the locks to get _out. _  
But the only thing inside would have been the lyre.  
He’d seen that for himself.  
Unless...

He forced his legs into gear, surprising himself with a run, and stopped at the edge of the cubicle. Avoiding the glass shards as best he could, he leant in, trying to get a glimpse of the base. 

He found no hole. 

He was officially stumped. And terrified. 

He knew he should call Jack, but he couldn’t bring himself to.  
There were cameras all over the place - what if there was something he missed, that was actually obvious and he was labelled as implicit, or even not good enough, and then got fired?  
He didn’t know when another job would come up, he’d have to return to being a freeloader—and he didn’t care what Sungjin said, he _was_ a freeloader, he _knew _he was—and he’d have to go back to the cafe, and explain why he got kicked out so early to his cousin.  
And his parents.

He stepped backwards, boots snapping beads of white-dusted transparence as he reached a hand to the back of his head, listening to his breathing shallow and the blood rush through his ears.

That was when he heard the flurry of air, as if something light had fallen from a great height. It was ended abruptly with a gentle pat.

He turned around, shoulders braced for the worst, a hand around his torch.

And there she was.

A short figure, with shoulders hidden beneath the silvery veil of the display case. Deep mahogany silk enrobed her body, a loose dress or tunic embellished with longer tresses of ombre rouge. Her hair was wild, thick black at smooth angles like the branches of a tree. Her eyes were a grey, though not of a storm, but rather the polished stones found upon the beach shoreline, that despite their dusty appearances, also caught the moonlight. Her neck was wrapped curiously with a wide strip of ribbon the hue of red wine, while her expression was set in fragments: one part seemed confused, another unforgiving, the final piece showing fear. 

“Are you the one who changed the locks?!”

Dowoon found himself responseless. What had he done?

Her facial features did not relent. “Tell me your name!”

He stiffened further at the sound of her raised demand. But still he stared, fear clutching at his throat too tightly for him to answer.

It was at that moment her expression softened. “Do not be fearful. I am here. But I will not hurt you.”

When he still did not talk, she continued, and Dowoon was even more startled to see her practically pout as her shoulder curled ever so slightly, “I am sorry, I did not mean to scare you. Or break the locks completely. Forever... I got scared I would be trapped forever, in there.”

“A-are you... the...?” his voice was scratchy, as if it was made of the glass that embroidered his shadow.

“Lyre?” She peered downwards, her eyes filling with... guilt? 

He nodded, fearing her response. Either way, it would make his head spin even more.

She inclined her head. “I am.”

“H-how?” he swallowed, aiming to strengthen his voice.

“A curse,” she murmured, “but they meant it as a blessing.”

His mouth agape, he shook his head, silently requesting an explanation.

“You would not understand. Though that is not your fault,” she took a step forward. “What is your name?”

“Uh... Dowoon.”

She smiled encouragingly. “Ah! I am Kari-zarul, the storyteller of Senshrika.”  
She brought her palm to her chest, before extending her hand, unfolding two fingers and her thumb to him. “It is nice to meet you, Do-woon.”   
But his wide-eyed bemusement remained. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he replied quickly. “I... just...”

She laughed. It was light and feeble, as if she hadn’t laughed in centuries. Though if what she was saying was true, then maybe she genuinely hadn’t. “You are doing much better than the last guardian did! Be proud.”

He perked up at that. “Last?”

She bowed her head, humming in affirmation. “Not long before you arrived, he left. I had tried to talk to him, but I failed. He fainted, right there.” She pointed to his feet, causing him to shift his weight. “I picked him up, helped him to the bench upstairs—so I could have time to return to my glass. He awoke, in good condition, but then he did not return the next night. I was free for a time, but I missed him. He used to sing during his walks. He was such a good singer.” Her eyes lit up like fire. “Do you sing?!”

He coughed, breath catching in his throat. “Uh, no.”  
Her face dimmed.  
“But! But I’m... learning? A little.”

She beamed, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “Ah! You should practice in here! The acoustics are wonderful.” She spun, her silk streams twirling with her. “I would sing with you but... yah, don’t worry.”

No sooner had she stopped, she began stepping towards him. He avoided her eyes, favouring the shining marble. That was when he caught sight of her bare feet.

“No!” he cried. She was immediately taken aback, her eyebrows knitting, clearly upset. Regretting his sudden outburst, he attempted to rectify it, “No, I mean, there’s glass. Your... feet...”

She peered downwards, threading her fingers through the air, instantaneously grinning, “Oh! Do not worry, that is not...” Then it was as if she was hit with a realisation, not one that he understood. “No, it is a problem, it is. Thank you.”

“It’s ok.” He pressed his lips together firmly. “Um, do you want me to come, over to you?”

She seemed happily surprised by his suggestion. “That would be so kind! Please, yes.”

Hit with a sudden bout of strength, he crossed the sea of shards. He looked to her. “Do you need me for something?”

She beamed. “Yes! A map! I need you to take me to a map, and to point on said map where we are right at this moment.”

“Of... of _here_ or—”

“The world.”

“Oh. Of course.” He tried to think where the maps would be. Realisation dawning on him on how long he was taking without offering an answer, he chewed the inside of his lip. His nerves attempted to buy him some time, speaking before he could quite catch himself, “But on one condition.”

“What would that be?” She was almost too accepting.

“Um, that...” Panic. Then a serious consideration, as the logic hit his brain, shock wearing off. “...that you tell me about how you’re a lyre. About the blessing-curse-thing.”

She swallowed, her face narrowing into grimness. “And you will bring me to a map?”

Snatching the memory of the map in the Naval Room upstairs, he responded with a nod. “Yeah. Tell me along the way.” He began to lead her up the stairs.

After seemingly weighing it up in her head, she inhaled, “Before, I was an artist. I was close friends with the vice chief named...” she paused, before becoming tainted with regret, “though I cannot remember her name I assure you I was! I accompanied her on her first journey overseas, to make trade with an emperor. The ship... our ships never fail but... she used her magia to preserve me. But subverting the wishes of the goddesses is costly. So only night frees me.”

“Magia?”

“I’m guessing non-Senshrikans would refer to as witchcraft. That’s what they used to call it when they visited us—”

“Magic?” he interrupted, stunned. He stopped on the third step, even though she continued. She only followed suit a couple of seconds later, cocking her head over her shoulder and gazing down at him.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“No.” He bluntly declared, raising his hands in surrender.

“What?” It was her turn to appear confused.

“Magic. _Magic—_” he couldn’t believe the words he was uttering, “—does _not _exist. I’m not falling for... for whatever this...”

She looked defeated, muttering sadly, “How long has it genuinely been?”

He shrugged at the room, “this all is. I’m sorry,” he added, reaching for his walkie-talkie. 

“No, Dowoon, do not do that,” she pleaded.

He sent her a wide-eyed look. Not meeting her gaze, he gently asserted, “Prove it?”

“Look,” she began, practically bounding the stairs so her head was level with his, “I cannot prove it to you.” He looked even further away, what she recognised as disappointment filling his eyes. She frantically tried to pull his attention back. “Magia is... it is not here! It is an energy, it can only be found in Senshrika—”

But he was gone.   
He turned his back. Not that he wanted to. “No. I am getting Jack. I’m sorry.”

“Dowoon! I promise you that I am honest with you. The locks! I punched those locks out! I am the one who disconnected the—!”

He silently strode off, feet crackling from the glass. ‘She is mad. Or not real,’ he thought. ‘Or both—Kris said this would happen.’

Determinedly he rounded the corner, taking the small staircase two steps at a time. Before long he was in the entrance room, overlooked by Jack who was twitching his head back and forth from monitor to monitor.   
When he head his boots click, he snapped his head towards him.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

Dowoon stopped at his counter, the confidence immediately seeping out of his blood as he forgot to plan what to say. “Uh—”

“I heard two breakages from _here,_ what happened?! Why did I hear _nothing _over the comms? Did you knock something off? You better have not!”

“No! I...” he glanced at the screens, “did you not see it on the cameras?”

Jack scowled. “Which room?”

“Ancient Instrument.”

He scoffed. “No, I did not see it on those cameras! Those cameras have been dead for years!”

Dowoon lost grip with reality briefly, thinking back to what the woman had begun to say when he’d stormed off.

“They were actually due to be fixed, and my complaint had _just_ reached Head Office when _you _came along and got the locks changed—they were _fine _but it didn’t matter, because that’s where the damned money went!”

It dawned on him that there was video evidence. Desperate, he interrupted, “I’m sorry—come and see it, please.”

“Why?” Jack spat.

“Because,” he sighed, exasperated, but more so with himself, “I don’t know how to explain it. Please.”

He glared at him so viciously Dowoon thought he was going to say no.   
Then he stood, swinging up the countertop-gate and locking it behind him. Jaw clenched, he marched towards the steps.

Dowoon was fretting, to say the least, as they came to a couple of feet away from the archway, opening into the glass-painted room. If she was still there, if she had run, if everything was intact and he’d imagined every second of it - no matter the scenario, it was all bad news. What was he going to say?

They turned the corner and his breath snagged in his throat.

“What the actual...?” Jack took in the sight before him incredulously. 

Dowoon grit his teeth together hard, stepping around him, trying to work out what he was seeing. And then it was as if he was frozen again.

The glass was everywhere at the base of the display, and the act of leaving the ring and returning opened his eyes to the scale of what had happened. The moonlight glinted off the white misshapen orbs, flecking the marble-like sequins or glitter. The locks were strewn surprisingly far away, as if they’d been thrown and then slid.   
But the lyre—and the veil—were not back in their original places. Instead, the lyre was placed upon the cover, away from the mess.

She couldn’t get across the glass. 

“Not again,” Jack grimaced, “this happened before. For this exact case too. Why can’t they just fit them prop—why is the lyre over there?!”

Dowoon wasn’t paying attention, internally discussing his mistake, and confusedly mumbled, “The glass...”

Jack looked at him with disdain, until his words clicked somehow in his head. “Oh, yes. Checking for glass in the lyre. I guess that’s a good idea. Fine.”

Trailing out of his thoughts, he asked slowly, “What... do you mean by ‘again?’”

“The last manager before me, when I worked as a guard like you,” he sighed, “mentioned a time when some badly fitted locks strained at the glass and broke off. This glass is strong and the locks... I don’t know, I zoned out, it was boring, ok? The point is that’s happened again, and I now have a ton of paperwork to fill out, got to make fifty calls, _especially _withthe company that fitted these blasted locks- why me!” He spun on his heel. “It’s going to need cleaning, but if it’s unharmed, put the lyre back on its pedestal will you? And carefully! This isn’t the Ancient Instrument Exhibit for no reason!”

He aimed to confirm that order, but his voice stuck 

Dowoon sidled across the marble, consciously trying not to step on the glass, even though the soles of his boots had him very much covered. When he reached the instrument's side, he shifted carefully onto his haunches. “I’m... going to pick you up, ok?”

He, of course, didn’t get a reply. He felt stupid for talking to it—her? She probably couldn’t hear him—if it was her at all.   
Though, he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk.

Gently wrapping his fingers around where the curved edge declined, which he presumed indicated where it was meant to be held, he, very gently, lifted the lyre up, until he was cradling it in his arms. He felt uneasy, having it so close.

He gently laid it—her down, rather than propped up like usual, on the cushion, then folded the cover, positioning it out of the way on top of the case. 

Finally, he slipped his walkie-talkie out of his belt.

“Hello, Junghwan?”

Crackle and static.

“Hello?”

“Yes? Oh, Dowoonie, hi! Nice to hear from you! Sorry about telling you right at this moment but I’m leaving for the—”

“There’s a mess that needs clearing up in the Ancient Instrument Exhibit.”  
He mentally reprimanded himself for how demanding he sounded.

The man muttered, “Ah you’ve got to be joking.” There was a sigh from the line. “What type?”

“Glass.”

“Oh, what?! I’m coming—but I’m in the carpark—East Wing... hang on... don’t step on it!”

With a click, static resumed, signalling the end of the conversation.

“Sorry, thank you,” Dowoon said to the air, not that Junghwan could hear.   
Instead, his eyes returned to the lyre, and he found himself apologising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may go back and edit some bits if I can at some point so  
If something rapid changes, don't mind me skskks
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter Three

That day, rather than have a quick nap like he usually did when he got home from work, Dowoon experienced himself sitting at the dining table, glaring new scratches into its tarnished surface.

When Sungjin awoke slightly behind his schedule, he ambled into the kitchen and leapt several inches out of his skin at the hunched figure, ever-so-slightly twitching at the arm. “Dowoon?”

He clenched his jaw, blinking a couple of times before yanking himself out of his stare. “Morning.”

His roommate analysed his face, worried shock plastered all over his face. “Are you ok? Dowoon, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost?”

If he’d been in a better state of mind, he perhaps would have chuckled quietly at the irony, but he was quite far from anything like that. “Tired.” He gave up.

“Well, go to sleep!”

“Can’t.”

Sungjin was the epitome of confusion. He staggered over to the opposite side of the table, inclining over heavily so he could get a better look at his face. “What happened today?”

“Weird day at work.”

“I admit stress has different effects on people, but I didn’t expect this from you,” he stood up, eyes wide and eyebrow arched. “Well, if you can’t sleep at least take it easy. Hey, I’ll do your chores for you today. Aren’t I kind?” he teased. But when it didn’t elicit a positive or negative reaction, no response at all, he panicked. Coughing, he snapped to a different approach. “Dowoon, you either go to bed and rest, or you go drum. I don’t care which, but you’ve got to do something.”

He nodded once, heading for the drum-kit. Sungjin breathed a sigh of relief, but he didn’t get the chance to fully exhale, as Dowoon just stared at the set, and didn’t sit down. He didn’t even touch it.

“Dowoon?” His voice was beginning to become noticeably edged with panic now. 

“Yeah, I think I’ll go to bed,” he rubbed his eyes, “sorry Hyung, I’m ok—really. Just...”

“Got to bed, Dowoon. The leftovers in the fridge will await your return,” he joked gently, but it was a thin cover. His eyes softened as the hunched silhouette trundled across the room and out of sight, the door closing with a heavy-handed click. 

Sungjin sighed, wondering what had changed.

The truth was, at that moment, it was as if all the rhythms and melodies in the world ran away from Dowoon, when he walked to the drumkit. They hid wherever they could find shade, and if he attempted to reach out to them, they cowered further. The ground had fallen away, chasm by chasm until he was finally left standing hazily out of reach, distinctly intangible.

He figured it’d be easier to sleep, but he couldn't have been more wrong. Laying with the room at just the right temperature, in new sheets, eyes closed, and feeling the drag of time weighing on his eyelids all encouraging him to slumber made no difference. As for around an hour, he lay empty, but very much awake.

When he finally drifted off, it was a dreamless landscape, his mind tilling over everything he had seen.

It was only when his eyelids lifted that he felt better, in the brief oasis of not being sleep nor really awake. The moments where his brain said that it was all a dream, and that he didn’t have to actually deal with the consequences.

Then he woke up and the realisation hit him like a shot of pure caffeine straight to the brain that he had to deal with the consequences. 

He wasn’t sure what he believed, but the rest had given him a new perspective. Because, thinking about it, for what had occurred, for his first time with dealing with a nightmare scenario—he hadn’t done that badly. 

And perhaps the whole ‘see out it goes and then react accordingly’ was a new approach that would frighten him if he actually thought about it, but he decided he wasn’t going to think too much about it. 

If she reappeared, then run along with it. There’s a magic lyre in the Ancient Instrument Exhibit who wants to see a map of the world.

If she doesn’t then it was a hallucination from a unison of events that created the perfect storm.

Either way, there was a solution.

Hence he headed to work with a newfound determination that he had no idea how long would last, if at all.

Keeping the greeting to Jack brief, because what use was it to try and be kind when he’d shown repeatedly that he wasn’t going to offer the same respect, he headed straight to the lockers.

Running into Junghwan and Kris who didn’t hesitate to question him on what had happened, he handled their interrogation ok (by his standards), directing them mostly in Jack’s way. He felt the pang of guilt at his selfish actions, but he needed to confirm it for himself, before acting on anything else. 

Asking Junghwan whether things had been cleared up yet, he discovered that most of it had been done throughout the early morning and the rest of the day. More importantly, however, there were no locks on the case at that instant, so he needed to pay close attention to that room, especially since there were no cameras. 

Which was exactly what he was intending to do. 

He headed along the corridor, checking the usual corners, admiring the smaller instruments by the midnight darkness. Eventually, the corridor opened into the main ring, and with a deep inhale, he headed inside. 

Trying not to stare at the core of the room, he let his back half-turn to the lyre, offering a privacy of sorts as well as the angle to check the other displays. 

He almost missed the tiny squeak under the sound of his own breath, which was louder than he hoped it would have been. 

He whipped around, too fast to seem sane, and was confronted with the sight he’d imagined was a figment.

And she was smiling, quite literally beaming, a smile that rivalled the moon.

“Dowoon, you came back!” she breathed. “I was quite positive you were not going to after yesterday’s night.”

“It’s my job,” he shrugged, glancing up at the cameras, only to find them with their heads bowed, “but... I’m sorry, for what happened.”

“Do not be sorry, there’s no need. Too much information and too many strange occurrences can overwhelm even the strongest of minds,” she laughed, padding over to him, “you should have seen the epiphany I had when I realised what had happened in the first place!”

They stood in silence.  
Without the adrenaline coursing through his blood, his thoughts were a lot clearer, and he could fully regard her face. Her eyes were a much darker grey than he’d originally imagined, but what struck him was how her skin was littered with a multitude of scars. They were faint, and set in a variety of shapes; some were like pinpricks, others ran in rivers across her arms. There were a couple on her face, one most notably through her eyebrow. It was old, as it was nearly invisible and her brow had healed, barely leaving it unobscured, but it was there nonetheless. It was a small nick, that must have instead run quite deep, and he found himself staring at it.

He contemplated why she hadn’t told him to stop watching because it was clearly obvious that he was, until he noticed her analysing his face too, her eyes staring vacantly into his with a squint.

“What happened to the cameras?” Dowoon enquired, feeling quite flustered. 

“Cameras?” She sounded startled, her eyes flicking up to where they were situated. “Oh yes, that was me.”

“Oh... How?” 

“Well,” she waggled her head sheepishly, “though magia is missing there are still some differences between us as people.” Upon spotting his confused his expression, she shook her head. “It is hard to explain. I am sorry to rush you, but can we go see the map? The sooner I see it the better.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.”

He led her once again up the steps located on the only closed wall of the circle, this time with her at his side, rather than behind. Nothing was said, however, no matter how much he longed to. He had a flurry of questions, yet not one word came from his mouth. The reached the top and turned left, heading down the walkway and through another door. It opened up into the art gallery, which made a surprisingly substantial amount of the building. The Naval Room was much closer to the West Wing and was pretty far away from where they were originally. 

It was she that broke the silence. Naval Room, though it wasn’t filled with any boats—rather, equipment used by sailors, and pieces of shrapnel. The Saudade Museum wasn’t focused on the wars at all, and if he’d gone to any of the other museums in the vicinity he would have theorised that this wasn't a deliberate decision at all, rather the cold harsh reality that they got their hands on the pieces before Saudade’s curators ever could.

It was her that broke the silence. “How old are you, Dowoon?”

“Ah, just turned 24.”

She nodded knowingly. “Thought so.”

Dowoon opened his mouth to question what she meant, when they accidentally passed the map they were looking for.

“Wait, back here.”

She spun round, before her face lit up, her draw dropping in awe. She charged forwards, without a fret of warning, and leant right over the plastic sheen, fingers tracing the thousands of lines arching and burrowing across the laminated paper.

“This map is so crazy, it looks nothing like ours! Where are we?” she cried, barely breathing as she spoke so fast.

He pointed.

“There? Oh!” She leant her face close to the surface, squinting tightly, twitching her head back and forth, searching. “Where is the Holy Roman Empire?”

His eyes widened, teeth-gritting, nerves starting to seep onto his face as he attempted to remain normal. “The what?”

Luckily she waved him off. “No panic, I have found Egypt.”  
Her hand ghosted the countries as she triangulated the position she wanted.

Then she gasped. “Where is Senshrika?!”

Dowoon very nearly went into a blind panic, spending all of his energy yanking his expression still, while praying his ears hadn't given him away.

She flicked her head to him. It was at such an unusual angle, it didn’t look comfortable. “The islands are not here, I cannot see them, Dowoon where are they?!”

"Uhhh...” He cleared his throat. “Uh, Kari? Was it?”

She pressed her face back to the map. “Yes, I am Kari-zarul. Where is—?”

“People don’t think Senshrika exists, Kari-zarul,” he tapered at her name. He really didn’t want to get it wrong and add salt to the wound.

He expected an explosion of emotion.

Instead, he received a very quiet: “What?”

She didn’t sound angry or confused. Nor frightened, or upset, not even a tinge of disbelief.  
The word rang dully in the air, an empty sound, a dead sound. It made the air feel hollow and taste of regret. 

“I don’t really know for sure, I only just started here, but...” he paused carefully. 

Looking at her wavering body, her breath hitching, as she stared at him, waited for him, silently paused and holding for something, reaching for another.

He knew the correct thing to do was to tell her.  
To say, “I think historians have decided that Senshrika once existed, but now no longer does. Something most likely to do with climate change or a natural disaster.”  
But he knew he’d regret his choice immediately, imagining her distraught, slowly slumping to the floor, asking to be put back in the display case and never be let out again. 

So he lied.

“I think this map is wrong.”

“Really?” Her voice quipped, harsh and still tinged with shock. “How so?”

“Well, many things in the museum are out of date. They won’t even fix cameras because they don’t have enough budget,” he swallowed thickly, trying to avoid her stare but not too much to make her suspicious, “and now you say your islands are missing? Got to be wrong.”  
He folded his arms, praying to all deities that could listen that she’d believe him.

Clearly, some did.  
“Well, that is just wrong! This is supposed to be an educational institution!”

He shrugged and sighed, “I know, I know.”

“Is there another map?”

“I don’t know,” he rubbed his chin, stopping as soon as he started as he realised it looked comical and played it off as an itch, “We could have a look right now?”

“Really?!”

“Of course!” he hesitated.

“Well, then we shall go! Come on!”

She scarpered away from the map, grabbing his arm as she went. “Where to?”

“Well, there could be one in the Animal Exhibit? And that’s... only around a couple of corners, I think...”

“Animals, oh I love animals—” 

“These ones aren’t...” he interrupted, sheepishly.

Her face dropped into one of horror. “Wait, oh these ones are stuffed. Taxidermy?”

He shrugged. “Yes?”

She shuddered, leaning into his shoulder playfully. “I’ll need you here then, won’t I? To look after me!”

He didn’t want to admit that her sudden contact made his heart beat a little bit faster, but nor did he find the power to speak.

She giggled, and for a moment he thought she’d noticed. “Ah, do not fear! I know it is I that will have to save you, for you will cower in fear at the static lions!”

“Oh,” he laughed ruefully, “of course!”

She laughed even louder, tittering, “Oh, Dowoon, your ears are so red! Why are they so red?”

He gulped.  
Panic.  
“No reason! They... they just are...!”

She cocked her head, “You say they have always been like that and until now I have not noticed?”

He met her square in the eye, feeling his blood run hot. “Yes.”

“Ah!” She looked away quickly, pulling out of his personal space. “You’re probably right, I am not running smoothly yet.”

He tried to keep his sigh of relief subtle and was successful, but it was not to last, as she leapt in front of him. “Dowoon?” she enquired, walking backwards.

He hummed in affirmation, lifting his head from his focus on the ground to her forehead, It was easier to stare at her skin rather than her interrogatory gaze.

“What is your favourite song, in the whole world?”

He guffawed, “I couldn’t pick one.”

“Not one?”

“No.”

“Not three?

“No.”

“Not even ten?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No!”

“Do you even like music?” she pestered, a mischievous lilt in her voice.

“Yes!” he answered swiftly. “I play drums. I used to be in a band, back at uni.”

She frowned, though he couldn’t tell whether it was due to the foreign word, or just thought. “Not anymore then?”

“No, we have jobs now. Actual jobs...” a smile flickered onto his face, “my roommate, he is very well-paid. So smart. I wish I was as clever as him.”

She came to his side once again. “But I am sure you are just as smart! Perhaps in different ways, but you still are.”

He mulled it over. “If I was as smart, I wouldn’t have only just gotten here. Maybe I wouldn’t even _be _here. I... would have an apartment of my own, or at least would... pay my own food money, or bills, or something. I wouldn’t have relied on him so much if I was.”

“Dowoon,” she peered over at him, but he instinctively avoided her eyes, too afraid to reciprocate, “you are not lesser than someone because you required help. In fact,” she waggled her head as if quickly checking her thoughts, “you are possibly stronger than he is because you asked for, or at least accepted, aid.”  
When he still didn’t brighten, she proceeded. “Do you like animals?”

He nodded.

“Well then, you probably know a little bit about them. When foals are born, do you know what skill or ability they develop first?”

He thought about it for a minute, their gentle footsteps fading together and lulling his thoughts into disarray. “Uh... running?”

“Yes! The first thing that they have to do, is get onto their feet and learn to run. Do you know what snake hatchlings first develop?”

He didn’t know that one, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“Venom. You know why those two things come first for those animals? Because that is their most important feature. It’s the thing they need the most to keep them alive.  
“So, do you know what babies first do, after they breathe?”

“Cry?” he suggested, but he really wasn’t sure.

She clicked her fingers. “That! Exactly! They cry. Because it is the thing that is going to help them stay alive. The first thing that humans do, is ask for help.”

She paused, to let that sink in for a brief second. “Dowoon, do foals, once they’ve grown into horses, stop running?”

“No.”

“Do snakes, once they are grown, stop producing venom?”

“No?”

“So why should babies, once they grow old enough to talk language, stop asking for help, when it was what they were born to do?”

He was stunned, to say the least.  
He’d never thought about things in that way. He’d never heard anyone tell him it was alright. He’d spent all that time worrying about letting people down and being a burden when they’d never actually told him that he was. He thought they had been too nice, but it occurred to him now that Jae was the type to tell him eventually. And he hadn’t.

“Look,” she turned away, eyes settling on the displays that passed them as they walked, “I know how it feels. You feel like a burden. I know, I feel like one too. I feel like a... a taker? A thief. As if I stole that magia wrongly from my friend. But then I remember she _chose _to give me that magia, that blessing. And to say that I stole it would be awfully selfish on my behalf. It was her heroic, selfless moment, and _that _is not something I should take away from her.  
“And your roommate? He sounds like he does not mind, paying for all of that for you. _That_ is his kind moment, _that_ is the thing you should not take from him. Right?”

“Right,” he echoed, something fluttering in his chest. Relief? Contentment? He wasn’t sure. Before he could look any closer, they reached the room stocked full of motionless animals.

“After all,” she pulled away once again, into the opening of the jam-packed room, “I rely on you now, Dowoon, so this is your time.”

With a burst of confidence, he acknowledged her words. “Yes, a map.”

“Well, and more than that.”

He met her stare at last.

“You are my only friend in the entire world as of now. Especially since my people probably do not remember me anymore either.”

The pang of guilt that bolted into his heart boiled and rose and forced him to stiffen. Yet she continued to just... watch him. Her eyes glistened in the shadow-littered, low-level lamplight. “So I need _you _right now_. _To help me.”

Contemplating his newfound responsibility, he found himself speaking while his muscles remained frozen. “Do you want me to hum for you in the corridors, even when you are a lyre?”

Her face melted into a beam. “I would like that a lot! I would like that so much, p-please.”

“Well,” he nodded sheepishly, “that’s settled. A... first step. Uh... we should look for a map.”

“Yes! Yes of course.”

He inclined his head on which direction to take, and she, to his surprise, hung back and let him lead.  
Of course, he didn’t have the heart to tell her he had expected her to want to split up and search.

He directed her off to the left-hand side of a small tunnel designed and scaffolded by bookshelves, while he took the right. Hands leafing across animal books, and books about plants and the odd rock or two, he gently passed spines labelled with 'Geography' in guilt-ridden silence.

Only as he held up a book on Africa, fingers brushing the pages open as he briefly scanned each page for anything of importance to keep hidden, did the realisation hit him that he’d never heard her stutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop, close to the final part  
I am excited uwu  
I just hope I'll have enough time soon to write and post it  
Don't want to leave anyone hanging
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
